The language that he reads is esoteric;
by Neil Young
Not hieroglyphs, yet symbols of high art;
Pages of black code that proffer colour,
Transcending each mathematical part.
Supple fingers play, they feel for spaces
To breathe within the dense, obscure inversions.
His hands form shapes, weaving as they translate
Chromatic patterns, pauses and progressions.
The language that I hear is also strange,
Warm vibrations, paradoxically chill,
Have power to engulf the stoic’s senses,
Imparting peace with their hypnotic will.
Languids fizzle, rumble; chorus reeds roar!
The ancient art, an act of sacrifice
Carried helpless by Victorian echoes,
Re-echoing until the walls suffice.
The language that she speaks is stranger still;
Those weakened signals which in part connect.
Words from her stroke-afflicted mouth, slur;
In tongues she talks, a broken dialect.
Now a stranger’s hands play, her substitute
Translating at the console both adore.
Stray manuscripts, half-thumbed, behind him root;
Beside them, those soft leather shoes she wore.